Command Decisions
by Northlight
Summary: Mirror to "L'Homme Bleu." Zack's take on the events of that story. [M/Z content]


Command Decisions

_ Title: Command Decisions  
Summary: Mirror to "L'Homme Bleu." Zack's take on the events of that story.  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee.  
Date: July 14, 2001.  
Note: This is something of a writing exercise for me--I wanted to see if I was capable of telling the same story from different povs without it being too similar. And for the curious, 'l'homme bleu' refers to a type of communication/relationship style._

It had taken him a few months to find Tosh--Zack had settled his brother in Vermont--too boring, too cold, Tosh had protested at the time. Zack had felt that he knew best. Tosh tended to located himself in more southern states, a pattern Lydecker was sure to have realized. They had fought over that, and that really hadn't been surprising as they fought about most things now. But Zack had prevailed at that time. He had thought the issue settled until he arrived at Tosh's small, single-storey house to find a newlywed couple set up there. 

Tosh had been living in a loft, with a girlfriend and a kitten several states away when Zack caught up with him. Tosh's girlfriend was tall and athletic and flashed her teeth in a wide, near-constant smile. Their tastes had been equally represented in their home, and Delilah hadn't left even under the force of Zack's chilly glare. It had been the kitten which convinced Zack that his brother was serious. Tosh had had girlfriends elsewhere, he'd even convinced himself that he loved some of them--but he had never allowed an animal into his life. Tosh thought of animals as dependents, and hated the idea of leaving a creature which had loved him without any warning or ability to comprehend his desertion. The kitten was soft and tiny, with black and white fur and a torn ear. Tosh had patted the animal during their entire conversation. 

Tosh, Zack had been informed, was quite capable of taking care of himself. He was tired of being ordered about, tired of attempting to create a life in the time Zack allotted him, tired of uprooting himself at a barked command on short notice. Delilah had been moving about in the kitchen, the kitten had been purring on Tosh's lap, and neither man had so much as raised their voice. A heated argument took place through expression and gestures and Delilah had come to sit on the couch and had told a long and involved joke about her last visit to the doctor's. She had laughed at her own cleverness while Tosh's narrowed eyes and jutting jaw demanded Zack's departure. 

Zack had nodded at Delilah, let her kiss his cheek and left without another word to Tosh. 

Tosh could take care of himself in a fight, he knew how to break into a heavily guarded building, how to kill someone most efficiently, but daily life dulled his edge. He wasn't on constant alert, and that was what was necessary. He didn't have the time and resources to discover where Manticore's interests were focused, troop deployment, a thousand other things. Zack would have known. He would have looked at Tosh's situation with an outsider's eyes, disconnected from his brother's routine of work and play, Delilah and kitty and he'd have _known_. Zack hadn't gone back to his brother, he'd brooded and warmed himself with righteous anger, and he hadn't wanted to have to deal with Tosh's stubborn refusal to listen to reason. 

They were on the street--the familiar military vehicles and personnel which never failed to make Zack go cold and still inside. Delilah was screaming, her voice a rising wail and Zack could hear the approaching rawness of it. "Let him go, let him go, let him go!" she was sobbing and shrieking and praying and she looked shockingly old without her wide white smile. She was naked beneath her nightgown, her feet bare, and her hands were tugging at the arms of one of the armed men blocking her. At Manticore, they had been taught not to feel embarrassment at the exposure of their bodies. Tosh was surrounded on the street, in nothing but his boxers, and Zack hadn't realized quite how vulnerable someone could look without clothing. 

Zack expanded his senses, learned each of the men below him with sight and scent and sound. He refused the hopelessness of the situation and aimed his gun. He was smooth and steady when he pulled the trigger, felt that he'd hit his target without looking. He had approached his brother's home cautiously, and had become fully aware of Tosh's predicament while staring down at him from the roof the building across from Tosh's. He moved quickly, hearing the cries that greeted the sudden death he had caused, the crackle of radios, Delilah's terrified screams. 

Zack fired again, heard the crack of bone, shredding flesh and an agonized cry. Tosh looked up, followed the sound of the gunfire and found Zack with inhumanly sharp eyes. Tosh's face twisted and Zack whirled around. He hadn't heard Jace approach and cursed himself for his carelessness. Zack hadn't known another X5 was involved in the capture, but he should have been aware of the possibility. Jace's leg rose, her hips rotating. Her boots were heavy Manticore-issue, and Zack's hand stung where Jace's foot connected. His gun clattered to the ground, skidded several feet. 

"X5-599, give yourself into custody now, and you may avoid needless suffering," Jace said, without any of the warmth her voice had once held. She still knew him, knew that such an offer would never be accepted. Jace was already moving as she spoke. She punched at Zack's face. 

He grabbed her fist before it connected, squeezed and twisted. Jace's foot swung out again, this time towards Zack's knee. He grunted and fell back a step. He could feel the parapet at his back. Zack ducked and rolled beneath Jace's blow, striking out at her legs with his own. She fell with a soft grunt, but immediately flipped back to her feet. She was faster than Zack remembered her being, and stronger--_better_. He had a brief moment's regret at not having been able to learn all which Jace had obviously benefitted from. 

Zack always felt odd while fighting--hyper-aware in muted surroundings. Delilah's voice rang through his head like a bell: "Tommy!" Her emotions were in her voice, clear in his head, too intimate. Despair and fear and confusion and Zack could feel the gunshot before the trigger was pulled. The scent of blood rose sharply with a fresh wave of the stuff. The sharp scent of sickness as Delilah fell to her knees and threw up. 

Jace's face flickered with emotions which Zack didn't care to attempt to decipher. He should have been able to save Tosh--would have had it not been for her interference. Jace had set aside her emotions as quickly as they had broke free. She was flowing forward. Zack used her momentum, caught hold of her, swung her over the edge of the roof. Jace didn't cry out. She wouldn't die, wasn't even hurt--Zack would have survived such a fall, and knew it was certain that Jace had as well. There were any number of places where Jace could have stopped or slowed her fall. He didn't wait to make sure one way or another. Hating retreat, he still ran. 

'Tosh. . .' and being right rarely felt like anything but awful. 

...~*~... 

Max had tripped over 'big brother' shortly after they had become intimate. She had gone pale, then flushed, and ducked to avoid his bland gaze. He noticed that she never called him her lover, or boyfriend, and rarely even friend. Max simply referred to him as Zack, as if she could think of no other word which could describe him and what he was to her. Zack suspected that Max considered their relationship to be mostly based on sex wound about comfort and familiarity. 

He didn't always succeed, but Zack tried to be completely honest with himself. He had learned that denying oneself tended to create unfortunate blindspots, and he couldn't afford to be anything but completely clearheaded and alert. Long before their relationship had turned sexual, Zack had picked apart his feelings for Max, examined them, and made his peace with them as well as he was able to. Desire, affection, anger, protectiveness and a thousand more emotions all woven into something broader that he knew as love. 

She had never said the words. He had, once. Jogging was one of the few physical activities from Manticore which Max continued to regularly engage in. They had just finished their morning run on the last day they were to spend together before Zack left. Max's hip had been resting against the counter in the kitchen, the thumb of her left hand hooked in the band of her jogging pants. Hair had tumbled further down her back as Max tilted her head, taking a deep draw from the full water bottle she had pulled from the fridge. And he had told her, casual, because it had seemed to most natural thing in the world. She had gone stiff and still and she had wiped dripping water from her lips and had not answered. And he was. . . okay with that, because he hadn't really expected her to. He hadn't told her again, because loving Max was sweet and sour all at once. 

The first thing he noticed was the scent of vanilla which hung thick and heavy in the air. Too much of the stuff made him uncomfortable--he'd always had a better sense of smell than had Max. But she liked the smell, and he'd put up with it without complaint. He heard the lapping of water, and followed the sounds towards the bathroom. She was laying back in the tub, her eyes half-slit. Her skin was flushed with the heat of the small room. Steam hid the imperfections of the bathroom, made everything turn soft and blurred towards the edges. Max pointed at him, crooking her finger. "Close the door," she said, and he did. 

He saw her smile, her delight at his obedience and he could have smiled in turn because she really didn't understand at all. He knelt on the bath mat and reached out for Max. He touched her eyebrows, her cheeks, her jaw, reassuring himself of the reality of her. She was there and real and _alive_ and he jumped slightly in surprise when Max's tongue touched his finger. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers. His fingers moved, buried in heavy strands of hair. He cupped the base of her skull, a sudden rush of tension making his grip tighter than he had meant. All his carefully maintained control cracked--and it was so much, so strong, that he could have choked on experience. He breathed Max's name and kissed her. 

Comfort was always a fleeting thing. Max knew he suffered, but didn't know what to do with that knowledge--didn't feel comfortable enough with his weakness to explore it. And he, though he sought comfort, was not easy enough with his own loss of emotional control to tell her what he needed. They ended up on the bathroom floor, hot and gasping, and Zack nearly felt worse at that moment then he had since he had witnessed Tosh's death. Thought of his brother made Zack's breath catch. Max was patting at his hair, her voice a indistinct blur. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Zack said, finally. He listened to his own voice--heavy with emotion and stilled tears--and forced himself to calm down. He rose and held out a hand to Max. Her lips twitched and she accepted, hardly any pressure as she rose, simply holding onto his hand. 

"C'mon," Max said. She was putting on her robe, tying it shut around her. He could feel the weight of her gaze--considering him, weighing his actions and her understanding of his emotions. Her voice gentled and she called his name. 

He knew that he must have seemed a pitiful figure, and the idea of the image he was presenting grated. There were times when he hated needing Max as he did. He loosened his tight reign of his emotions while with her--and that was necessary--but Zack could not help but feeling some degree of distaste at that exposure. He knew that Max would hover or grow annoyed should he fail to respond. He put as much reassurance into his voice as he could manage. "Give me a minute," he said, and it was enough. 

His shirt was a damp mound on the floor. Zack lifted it, considering the tears at the seams. Useless, now, and he carefully folded the shirt and placed it on the closed toilet seat. Zack straightened up the rest of his clothing, his movements slow and deliberate. He paused before the mirror, wiping away some of the steam fogging it with his open palm. He looked gaunt, ancient even. Even when he was suffering, Zack was always buoyed by a sense of purpose. He had never felt quite so worn-out. He had been fighting something or another for the entirety of his life, and for the first time, he wasn't sure that he would come out the winner. 

Zack's lips tightened. 'Self-pity,' he accused, glaring at his reflection. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. "Pull yourself together, soldier," Zack said, reaching for the bathroom door. 

One part of his mind--that which could never stop scanning his surroundings--had been aware of Max's movements in the kitchen. He had heard the squeal of the fridge as it was opened, the opening and closing of the pantry and the crinkling of plastic wrapping. She had finished her preparations when Zack joined her--her bare feet resting on the table's second chair. She slid her feet towards the ground, giving the chair a nudge towards Zack with her toes. She was openly studying him as she pressed a plate of toast and a cup of coffee in Zack's direction. 

Max's hair had been swept up, held in place by a clip. Some strands had escaped and had trailed into the water. They lay wet against the front of her robe. Flushed and scrubbed free of makeup, moving about in her home, Max looked suddenly, painfully at ease with her life. Zack sometimes wondered how Max had managed to integrate herself into the world beyond Manticore so very well. He still felt twitchy--off-center and irritated by the less structured reality of the world. 

"You want to talk about it?" Max offered when she returned from re-filling the toaster. She didn't sound as if she expected him to answer affirmatively--not that he had given her much reason to think differently in the past. When they had first met after the escape, Zack had told Max that he couldn't risk telling her where the others were. She had accepted that initially. She had grown into a new mindset in the years after that--not a soldier respecting a tactical decision, but a woman desperately longing for news of her family. She asked whenever he came to see her, and she would push until he snapped at her for peace. 

"Tosh," Zack said, nearly startling himself with his response. He needed to talk about what had happened, but explaining himself was beyond the realm of his normal behaviour. Zack closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Tosh, he repeated to himself. They hadn't been good together, not for years. They had fought more often than not in the past two years, and neither of them had very much liked who the other had become. And he had put off seeing Tosh because of that, hadn't he? He had been tired of Tosh's comments, his lifestyle, his disregard for Zack's concern. No, Zack admitted--he'd mostly been angry that Tosh hadn't obeyed his orders anymore. 

Two final slices of toast were dropped onto the plate in front of Zack. Max's voice held the same wary hurt it contained every time she suspected something had happened to one of her siblings. "What happened?" There was a plea for reassurance in her voice. 

Zack opened his eyes and sought out Max's gaze. "He's gone, Max," and the words were nowhere near enough to explain what had occurred. "I couldn't help him. He needed my help and there wasn't anything I could do." 

Zack growled deep in his chest. He rose upwards, a sudden violent motion which sent his chair toppling backwards. He grabbed at the plate and flung it across the room. It shattered, pieces bouncing back in their direction with the force of the explosion. Max ducked. Zack didn't move, ignoring those few pieces which struck him. His fists clenched, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. Manticore. Jace. Tosh. His own pride and arrogance. Zack's teeth gnashed together. "I hate this!" he exploded, aiming a blow at the table strong enough to break it had Max not grabbed hold of his wrist. 

"I know," Max said, a tremor in her voice. Her eyes were shinning. "Destroying my kitchen and setting me back several paychecks isn't going to make things better." 

"You don't understand," Zack growled. He shook off Max's touch, running a hand through his hair. 

He knew that he had angered Max before she spoke. "I understand the frustration at not being able to help someone you care for. I know what its like being too little too late. I've failed people who have depended upon me. I've lost people I love." Max's voice rose, darker emotions filling her words. "Maybe if you'd let me help you, let all of us help each other--" she cut off her words. 

Violence was easier than understanding, and he wanted to scream at her, strike out at Max for daring to speak what it hurt to even think. "Maybe you're right," Zack answered, every syllable packed tight with pain. "Tosh is dead because of me and my pride. I've admitted it. Is that what you wanted to hear?" 

Max looked shocked. He hadn't directed any of his anger in her direction before. "I didn't mean that," Max protested, she didn't manage to sound as if she believed herself. 

"Spare me the lies, Max," Zack snapped. He knew that several of the X5s under his command thought that he was playing at martyr--exaggerating what it took to remain free. Sometimes, he thought that they wanted him to fail, simply so they could say that they had known better than he all along. "We both know precisely what you meant." It physically hurt to say the next words. "You are right. You are." 

Zack broke eye contact. There were too many strong emotions in the room, sparking across his raw nerves. He looked at the kitchen and frowned. He hated loosing control, and Zack thought that his display of temper hadn't been anything acceptable in a commanding officer. He had felt like a child, angry and frustrated with no way in which to vent those emotions. His penance was gathering the shattered remains of the plate he had thrown, dropping them into the garbage bag Max provided. He felt calm, steady again by the time he was done. 

"I should leave." 

Max stepped up behind Zack, so close he could feel the heat of her body. She lay a tender hand on his arm. "You shouldn't be alone right now. I don't want to be alone tonight. Stay with me? Please," Max sounded sincere. 

"I will," Zack said, silently thanking her for not depriving him of the company he needed. 

...~*~... 

He had slept for a long time. Zack woke with sticky eyelids, flat hair, feeling grimy. He yawned widely and scrubbed at his eyes with his fists. Zack swung his feet towards the floor and stretched until he heard his back pop. He hadn't been in this apartment more than once. Max was neat, predictable in her choice of furniture arrangement. She had a change of clothing for him in the bottom drawer of her dresser. Fresh clothing in one hand, a towel in the other, Zack headed towards the bathroom. 

He turned his face up into the spray of hot water. Zack grimaced at the bar of vanilla soap, but his skin was itching with the accumulated dirt of days worth of travel and pain. He washed as quickly as possible while still being thorough. He turned off the taps, dried and dressed, still considering his options. He wasn't sure how he felt about his idea, although he was certain of Max's response. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, Zack was resolved to extend his offer. 

"I've been thinking," Zack began as he put together his sandwich. 

"Have you really?" Max murmured, her arched eyebrow the very picture of amusement. 

"Do you want to hear what I've decided or not?" Zack asked, trying not to sound irritable. Saying this was difficult, and Max's version of humour didn't always meld harmoniously with his own. Max sighed and nodded theatrically, urging Zack to continue. "You were right last night, Max. I can't take care of this by myself. If you're willing to give this up," Zack said with a gesture that was meant to encompass her home, jobs, friends--her life and a future of relative freedom from demands--"I'll take you with me on my rounds." 

Max's eyes went round and bright with delight. "I guess sleeping with the commander has some benefits," she joked, nodding vigorously. 

Zack didn't wince at that. He glowered at her, speaking firmly. "This is serious, Max," he informed her. 

"I know, Zack. Believe me, I know." 

He shook his head. "I don't think you do. The situation has changed. Lydecker has brought the others out. Jace was there." It was hard saying her name with snarling. Jace hadn't even been the best of those left behind--Ro, Laine, Cray, all of them had been more skilled than had Jace. His X5s were the best, but they had not benefited from the advanced training the others had received. "It's been hard keeping the others out of Lydecker's clutches in the past. If he's using X5s now. . ." 

Max reached out to squeeze Zack's hand. She practically radiated confidence and enthusiasm. Sometimes, those few years in age difference between them felt like decades. "I'm coming with you, Zack. I'll help you take care of things." She crunched down on her last piece of bacon and grinned. She rose, wiping her hands against the thighs of her jeans. "Well come on, Zack. When are we heading out?" 

He almost withdrew his offer then. "Eager," Zack said instead. 

"Don't you know it," Max smiled. "You finish off," she said, gesturing at Zack's unfinished breakfast. "I'll pack up and make a few phone calls. We can be out of here within the hour." She stopped long enough to give him a quick kiss, happy and friendly and almost completely comfortable. "Thank you." 

"Don't thank me yet," Zack muttered, knowing that she would stop smiling quite so brightly before too long. He sighed. Freedom always had demanded sacrifices. 


End file.
